Boring

Out-n-back rides are never creative, but I forgot to plot out a course and I wanted to make sure I was back for a Thanksgiving feast. Rode a more interesting route yesterday, but the dictates of time meant that I had to be back sooner than I would have liked to go on a five mile deathmarch of a walk with my dad and brother, my dad leading the way, of course. I did get some new kicks out of the deal, so win-win.

Ate lots of pumpkin pie and turkey. Sadly, there was a lack of pecan pie. Looks like I'll have to whip up one or three.

I did realize that I love North Carolina. I'd do lots to end up somewhere in the Research Triangle area, but as of now, I'm slowly entrenching myself into the Chicago firmament. Something to think and dream about, I guess.

Cincinnati to Chapel Hill

Headed to North Carolina in five hours and I'm wide awake. I'll need the Venti tomorrow, durn it.

My dad promises Burger King. I'm leaning toward Krystal. Either way, the gluttony is going to be out-of-control.

I'll come back to Chicago with a gut.

A Conversation with Helge

Helge: you there honey
me: Awww, yeah
Helge: yo!
me: I heard yesterday's race was epic.
Helge: yeah, real fun
me: Something about an alligator pit and flames?
Helge: croc pit actually
me: Oh, dang, that's right.
Helge: 14 foot flames 4 feet wide
me: Were there any maneating plants coming out of green pipes?
And plumbers?
Helge: yeah but I ate some killer shrooms and blasted them with my balls
me: We need to have a Super Mario Bros. race next year at DeKalb.
Helge: I mean fireballs
me: ahhhhhh
Helge: nice
me: Set up a water pit. Or run the race into the river.
Helge: That'd be great
me: Woah...we should make it so that you have to swim across the river to get through the course.
Helge: I"m sure the dudes with 5K bikes would love that!
me: Those dudes on $5K bikes need to unclench those heinies a little.
Relax and let it all out.
Helge: that will never happen
me: Yeah. That's why they aren't on Half Acre. They aren't awesome enough.

Cold

Yesterday, I went out with good intentions to do the 33.8 mile ride to Promontory Point, which usually takes me 1:45-1:55 to do, depending on how lazy I feel and the wind.

I made it to Irving Park before I decided to pack it in. My hands started freezing up and I just felt uninspired. I think I'm finally sick of the bike, or maybe, just tired of training. The CX season is almost over and the next race on my calendar is the Schabobele road race in February. I've got tons of hours and miles in for the year and I'm just done with it. I have been running more, which I really, truly enjoy for some odd reason. I think it's the simplicity of the activity: it takes two minutes to get ready and I can get out the door and do my favorite three miles, with a stop for jumping jacks at Loyola Park. I oughta increase the mileage a bit, because I've been considering a duathlon or tri next year. Yes, seriously.

But I can't give up on the bike.

I woke up this morning and thought about getting out onto the road for a good jaunt to Northerly, but when I went outside to get the paper and felt the chill, I bagged on that idea. Set the trainer up for the first time since March, put on a Tour de France DVD to give me something to look at and loaded the iPod with Aus Rotten. Put in 1:15 and felt good. I guess I better get used to the trainer now – I'll be on that thing plenty for the next four months.

Epilogue:

Julie's already given me the hassle. I guess I should've explained: I need to get used to this cold weather business. In a week or two, I'll be out there plenty, bundled-up, and doing my thing per usual. I just need to ease into it, that's all. Last year, I was doing 65 milers to Wolf Lake with the temps. in the mid 20s. Soon, I'll be back to that business, but until then, I'm gonna be on that trainer. Sorry.

History (Part 2)

Ever since I moved away from my hometown of Cincinnati, first to Athens, then to Chicago, I've thought about time and how my glimpses of reality back home are snapshots, frozen into those monthly or bi-monthly visits. I make the drive down and the tomatoes that were seedlings in the spring have become full plants, heavy with ruddy fruit. The house on the corner, the one with the unmowed yard (a victim of the subprime crisis, I reckon) has a hole in the roof from a fire whose origins are still a mystery. My experience is a common one, one that's been discussed ad nauseum, but yet, it's my own experience.

Last week, I went down to Barlow, Ohio with my mom and her boyfriend Jim to celebrate my grandparents' 60th anniversary. A short trip – I brought my bike along to revisit a favorite route of mine – we were only gone for two days and one night. When I finally arrived at the farm from my ride, I was just in time for some eating and the unveiling of the gift of an overgrown golf cart to help my grandparents get around on the farm. When the excitement had all died down, I went off for a walk.



Growing up, the farm was a big playground for me, my brothers, and my cousins. We'd get into something we shouldn't have gotten into, usually something with an engine and sharp. Or we'd end up getting chased by the bull out in the pasture. The barns are still full of tractors, balers and other dangerous machinery, but the cows are gone, sold off long ago.



I wandered first toward the old farmhouse, which is slowly collapsing in upon itself. The foundations solid, but holes in the firmament and roof have let in water and raccoons. A large crack splits the brickwork, the inside smells of must. There's talk of restoring the house, the cost is prohibitive, but by no means a barrier. Regardless, something, anything will have to happen soon or else the house will fall into its cellar and cistern.



After talking to Jim and my uncle Bruce (both pictured in the photo of the house above), I went into the toolshed. Mostly just storage for dead weed trimmers, a drill press, and buckets of old, rusty nails and bolts, this small building with its oil-stained wooden floors that buckle and sag right in front of the toolbench where one would stand while rebuilding an engine or sharpening a spade.



I then took some time to mess around with the John Deere bulldozer. Someone changed the oil a while ago and a spider had built a web from the edge of the oil bucket to the filter. My grandparents acquired the 'dozer about six years ago and it gets pulled out on occasion to dig a trench, make a big mess. One of the funner pieces of heavy machinery I've ever had the pleasure of operating. Just like everything else on the farm, it's old – it rolled or clanked off the assembly line in the late 1960s.



Oil too is a part of our land – under the fields and grass lie some shale foundations and under those gas and oil. My grandparents' house is blazing hot in the winter, owing to the free gas that comes off a stand pipe somewhere on the hill behind the house. Tucked away behind that hill is the oil pump that supposedly turns on automatically, but it is covered in rust like everything else metal on the farm, and it looks as if it's not pumped in years. We get royalties from the oil, not much because there's not much under the ground, but the proceeds paid for my Christmas gifts as a kid.



After dinner at 5:00 (farmers, even retired ones, eat early, I guess), I went down to the basement and garage and rooted around in the toolbins and boxes, looking for pieces of who I am. Went out to the garage and studied my grandfather's workbench, looked at all the tools lined up in even rows, and peered under the covered 1933 Ford Model T that he spent years restoring.



Next time I'm back, I hope to bring a better camera with me. The Powershot's good for general use, but it struggled mightily with lower light levels. I tried touching up the photos, but they all turned grainy, so I mostly just tried balancing the color to compensate for the overcast conditions. I do have about 10 rolls of high-end film I need to use up, so maybe I'll shoot some over Christmas.

Lansing, IL

After a month off from racing, I decided to make today's ChiCrossCup race in Lansing, IL, down in the far southside, my big return. Predicted conditions were 35 and windy, which it was, and the course was said to be flat – a "grass criterium" – which was also correct. I don't like the cold, nor do I like flat courses, so the fact that I was so pumped about this race somewhat surprised me.

I picked up Naz at 8:10 – after missing St. Charles because of bad directions and a late departure, we made sure that we would not have another repeat. After a short drive down LSD and I-94, we got to the race with time to spare, and I had a reason to do well in the race – I saw the promise offered by a Dairy Queen a few blocks away from the race.

After registering, Naz and I were able to get out for a few laps. The course itself started at the east end of the park, swung north, where it travelled along the side of 178th st., then came back into the park for some sweepers and a hairpin. Then, two barriers set about 50 feet apart got one off of the bike. A long paved section led to another barrier set about 30 feet in front of the long sandpit. After that, the course swung around a tennis court to the start/finish. A quick, short blast – nothing at all technical, but certainly a hard workout.

Tim, Adrian, Helge, and the Killjoy crew all arrived eventually and sooner rather than later, it was time to get psyched-up to ride. Naz let me have a schmear of some Mad Alchemy embrocation, which I used to dose my toes and fingers, which always suffer so much in the cold. Almost instantly, my hands were tingling (and right now, eight hours later, are still tingling, despite the use of lots of soap) and I started to see how some of those crazies are able to go bare-legged in the cold. I'm a wuss, so I had on a jersey, fleece-lined jacket, two bib shorts, leg warmers, Craft lobster claws, and a cap. I don't like being cold, and I like even less riding my bike while cold. My philosophy: it's easier to unzip a jersey than to have to suffer even more than necessary from the chill.

After calls-ups, us peons jostled for a solid spot, which didn't serve me especially well because my start was terrible. I found myself in the back 1/3 and because the course was especially tight, I wasn't about to move forward until after the first lap. By then, I had passed all my teammates and found myself picking through a few stragglers who had gassed it all in the first go around the course. Of course, the leaders who had both gotten a good start and had good fitness were already way up ahead. So, I was out racing my own race and did so for the next 9 laps. I only bobbled once, in the fourth lap, when I botched a remount and struck my right ankle against the left pedal. Hurt it pretty bad, so I had to soft-pedal for a minute, but the pain subsided to a dull throb and I got back into the swing of things.

Near the end of the ninth lap, I could see the race leaders only a little bit back. I don't like being lapped, like most every other cyclocrosser, but I was determined to hold them off so that I could finish the race on the same lap. I put some extra gas into my pedal stroke, took the corners a bit quicker, and managed to avoid being lapped by a Burnham Racing rider by about 20 feet. Ended up finishing 20th out of 27 finishers and 33 starters. Not great, but I feel better about completing the rest of the race series, so today was certainly a success in that regard.

After a mediocre lunch at a Mexican joint, Naz and I got some Baskin-Robbins and got back in time to see off the Men's 4 races. Lots of dollar bills were handed-out, and Hemme got yelled at by the organizer. Awesome. I love this sport.

Suited-up

I had an interview this afternoon for work at a NGO as a communications specialist, doing web content development, research, and editing. I had time to kill beforehand, so I ducked into a Borders Books and browsed through the magazines. Picked up a Maximum Rock 'n Roll, probably the first time in about five years, read a column about the death of Matt Odietus of the Candy Snatchers, and skimmed the reviews.

Funny thing, was that I was in my suit, tie and a sharp blue shirt. If my 17 year old self caught glimpse of someone like me, dressed professionally, with a punk 'zine in hand (stalwartish, irrelevant, or whatever), I would have either mockingly laughed, or thought about how awesome it was that someone could still be into the punk rock AND work a real job. Back then I wasn't much the churlish type, so I really want to believe that I'd fall into the latter.

I remember being mightily impressed that the singer of the Twerps, an amazing Cincinnati punk band, was a professor at NKU. And that the bassist of the Slobs, another equally great band, worked in finance. Being that I was going to shows in punkhouses, covered in sweat and beer, I was affirmed that I didn't have to discard my ideals if I wanted to do something with my life.

Not saying I'm doing much with what I've got, but I'm doing something.

Taking Stock

Going down to Cincinnati tomorrow night. Allison wanted to go down home to work on a photo project in her parents' backyard; I'm headed to Barlow, Ohio early Saturday morning to spend some time with my grandparents, who are celebrating their 60th anniversary. My grandfather is 85, my grandmother 81, and they're both doing well enough. Thing is, is that now that I live in Chicago, I don't get to the farm so much to spend some leisurely hours talking to them, or in the barn, picking through centuries of detritus. My bike's coming along, so if I'm feeling the itch (and don't I always), I'll get out and do my favorite loop. I always look at my time in Barlow as a way to get perspective on things, take my life into account. Sifting through old photos of my great-great-grandfather, or digging into the innards of the blown tractor gearbox in the garage is therapeutic, in a way.

If we get back in time Sunday, I'm doing the John Bryant OVCX race in Yellow Springs. Went there three years ago and broke a crank on the first lap, ending my race. I've been itching for revenge ever since. Up here in Chicago is the Northbrook melee and the weather's looking promising, CX-speaking, for once.

And there it is

Big B's the next President of the United States.

I'm not cynical enough to say that good times are on the way.

Now to go to bed.

Monday, 11/3/2008

I've resisted discussing here the election with which we've all by now become either completely engrossed-with, or have completely tuned-out. One or the other. I fall in the former camp: my homepage for the past three months is for all intents and purposes Politico, Pollster and Wonkette. I diddle with all the electoral maps, figuring out all the possible schemas for Democratic defeat by landslide, Republican loss by slim margins, or a comeback by Ralph Nader to sweep the entire pot of 538. The last scenario about as unlikely as the natural return of hair on the top of my head.

I've devoured all the commentary on this year's horse race, including that on the National Review, Drudge, and other conservative blogs/websites. All that mostly for perspective and insight – I like knowing how the other "side" thinks, but I'm not stupid enough to think of Republicans as enemies or nemeses. We're all Americans and like it or not, we all share a common interest: to live a good life in the unperfect beauty that is the United States. We just have different ideas on how to do so. I prefer taking the post-structuralist approach to political life, anyway.

I remember getting into a discussion a few months back with someone at a dinner party, when the returns for the Iowa Primaries were coming in. Everyone at the party was rooting for Obama, as was I. We all had some wine in us and delicious food on the way, and of course, the conversation was about the Big B. I got to talking to with one of the fellow partygoers, a guy I'll name Sam. Sam was from the south, North Carolina I think, and lived in Chicago for a couple of years, working in the arts. The topic of family and origins came up – I have an avid interest in rural issues, especially that of Appalachia, seeing as how half my family and all of Allison's is from West Virginia and southeastern Ohio. I'm some part Hatfield, for what it's worth.

So I asked Sam if he missed NC and if went home often. The answer I got was something like, "Well, not so often. Me and my family don't get along in politics." And I thought that odd as the games of politics, at least for me, are unable to usurp blood. Certainly, there could be other issues at play, of which I didn't ask.

My maternal grandparents are socially-conservative agrarians; my paternal are working-class Jews from the city, and I'm some sort of amalgam that's come out liberal in most aspects. But maybe my passion doesn't run so deep, or my ideals are flimsy, because I could never begrudge my maternal grandparents, or any of my other family members, for voting for McCain/Palin. Seems shortsighted and ridiculous.

I suppose that all of this is somehow related to my journalistic background – I'm trained to see things with a skeptic's eye and to keep emotion out of the way. I've made the study of media bias (real or otherwise) a keystone of my academic research and I try to avoid letting my heart take rein of my political beliefs. Maybe I shouldn't be critical of those who live their beliefs passionately; maybe I should see the strength it takes to take a stand for what one feels. I so feel ambivalent sometimes, especially after the tragedies of 2000 and 2004. And while I've not gotten to the point where I see the democratic process as a sham, (which is a subject for another day), I am certainly wary of lofty claims and overly ambitious plans.

However, tomorrow, if Obama takes the 270 electoral votes he needs, I'm going to gloat and maybe I'll let some of the elation I'll likely be around as I watch the returns sway me – just a little bit.

Ha!

Out of Chicago by 9:00 AM with Allison, Jen, and Naz so that me and Naz could race the St. Charles 'cross race. Allison was going to explore the woods and work on some photos and Jen was going to hang out and spend some time out of the city. Thanks to GoogleMaps, my directions to the park where the race was to be held were completely wrong, sending us through a subdivision where there were no cyclocross activities to be seen.

At 10:45, with our race due to start in 15 minutes and still no idea where we were, we came to the unanimous decision in the car to bag it. It was disappointing, as we had come all the way out, but we were all stressed-out, aggravated and just plain mad. So we went to Caribou Coffee, where Allison was able to hit a deadline for her school thesis. After all that, we went to Chili's, where we had the most disgusting lunch ever, and then came back to Chicago. Naz is a huge fan of Chili's, which I find both amusing and mystifying.

We didn't race 'cross, nor did we make it to the race, even. So, yeah, it was something of a bummer. However, we still had a good time – which isn't all one can really ask for anyway?

We have a team open house tonight, and I think Naz and I may roll out for a workout beforehand. It might serve us right, seeing as how we didn't get sweaty with the team earlier. Penance can be a beautiful thing. Apologies to all my friends who I haven't seen in weeks – hopefully you haven't totally written me off just yet. Despite what you think, I'm not that much of a flake.